


Ground Rules

by verushka70



Category: Heat (1995)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 04:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/verushka70
Summary: Vincent glances over his shoulder once as he pisses. He meets Neil's eyes in the mirror over the sinks. When he does, he sees it in Neil's eyes. He will know when the time is right. There will be some sign from Neil. Vincent can feel it.





	Ground Rules

**Author's Note:**

> For the [older_not_dead ](http://older-not-dead.livejournal.com/)LJ comm's amnesty month. The prompt is from [promptathon 5: love and hate](http://older-not-dead.livejournal.com/30067.html). Prompt was (?. ?/?.) any fandom, any pairing, "Special chemistry."

They face one another over their coffee, looking each other in the eye. Neil's got that look that means nothing escapes his notice…that means you are dealing with a man who, while you might not like what he does for a living, does it very well. 

Vincent finds that appraising look directed at him. It says Neil recognizes the same in him. They talk about what they do, how they do it. It will (almost) be a shame when he takes Neil down. (No part of Vincent admits the possibility that he can't take Neil down.)

They talk about their recurring nightmares. Vincent describes his horrible banquet with silent, bloated murder victims. Neil reveals his drowning dream. They contemplate each other. 

“You've seen some shit,” Neil observes.

Vincent nods slightly. “You, too. Folsom. McNeil.” 

The corners of Neil's eyes and the wrinkles on his forehead change subtly as he stares Vincent down. It might be imperceptible to anyone but Vincent. He sees Neil's gaze narrow, sharpen.

Vincent realizes that what he just said could be taken a completely different way. Realizes what he just saw was that thought crossing Neil's mind. He feels a certain heat in his cheeks. A strange flutter starts in his chest, not part of his usual angst and edge.

“Violence. Lock-downs,” he clarifies. 

Neil thinks about it. His features relax slightly. Finally he gives a measured nod. They both look away. Vincent scans the people around them in the coffee shop. Neil looks out the window. The flutter tamps down in Vincent's chest. But then their eyes lock again at the exact same time.

Technically, they've only just met for the first time. They don't know each other. Yet they know each other. Vincent knows Neil has a code, has ethics: no unnecessary cruelty; the expediency of a pro. He knows it because he has it himself. 

Neil can never be turned into a C.I. He would never rat on anyone, not even for justice or to save his own skin. He'd seek his own justice. You could go old-school on him – other cops probably have – and Neil would give up no one.

He would never admit it, but… Vincent might have kind of a crush on Neil McCauley. 

A beat. They look at each other. A nod from Neil, and they're both rising wordlessly from their table. They head to the bathroom, Neil leading, Vincent following. Looking at the back of Neil's short, trimmed hair, a long unmet need rises from somewhere buried inside Vincent. 

That such a young, giddy impulse could emerge from under all the horrors he's seen and stored comes as a shock. It feels fragile. Vincent carries it carefully, not wanting to spill a drop. His pulse quickens as he follows Neil to the men's room. Not knowing what will happen puts a strange spring in his step. He feels a flash of anticipation, not unlike the moments before shooting erupts. 

They go in the bathroom. Neil stops at the urinal closest to the door. Vincent smiles to himself. The exit is now blocked. No feet under the two empty stalls. Vincent slips past Neil to the farther urinal. He has perfected his peripheral vision, to see what's coming before it comes. 

The sound of Neil unzipping is loud in the silence and hard surfaces of the bathroom. Vincent uses his trained peripheral vision. But Neil only stares at the wall tile while pissing. 

By the time Vincent is fully unzipped, Neil's done. Neil zips up and turns to the sink to wash his hands. Vincent pisses and takes in Neil's proximity to the door, the lack of feet under the stalls, the fact that they are well matched in size and weight. He knows Neil is doing the same.

Removing themselves from other people helps. They are not like other people. Vincent glances over his shoulder once as he pisses. He meets Neil's eyes in the mirror over the sinks. When he does, he sees it in Neil's eyes. He will know when the time is right. There will be some sign from Neil. Vincent can feel it.

Then Neil drops his gaze and reaches for the paper towel. He seems to move slow and easy, yet somehow also with speed and efficiency. 

By the time Vincent has paper towel in his wet hands, Neil is out the door.

* * *

Half an hour later, Tactical informs Vincent that all surveillance has been dumped by Neil's crew. Vincent blusters through obligatory outrage after determining that no one in the LAPD knows where anyone in Neil's crew is – least of all Neil. He storms back out to his car. 

Neil and crew dumped all surveillance. 

Vincent drives aimlessly a few minutes. A sudden thought occurs to him, and he swings a U-turn to go back to the same coffee shop. He pulls up, sees Neil looking at him through the window. Different table than before.

Vincent goes into the coffee shop and sits across from him again. The air between them feels electric, some special chemistry here that each man has with no one else. Neil levels an intense gaze at Vincent. 

“Had to lose all that.” 

His slight shrug is almost, but not quite, apologetic. The waitress arrives. Neil's gesture includes both their coffee mugs without looking at her; his gaze never wavers from Vincent’s. She pours them both coffee and leaves.

“You just cost the LAPD a couple hundred thousand dollars,” Vincent observes. 

His skin tingles. He keeps a tight rein on everything. Neil glances out the window. Vincent can't take his eyes off him.

“Had to be done,” Neil shrugs. 

His thousand yard stare looks out the window, off in the distance. But Vincent can feel his presence and attention close, very close, at hand. Suddenly, Neil's eyes snap back to Vincent's. 

“You follow me,” he says to Vincent.

Vincent nods agreeably. They each throw down a few bucks, looking at nothing but each other. Steam curls over their untouched coffee as they both rise from the table.

* * *

He tails Neil, not too distantly, not too close. Neil turns in to the parking lot of a huge hotel at LAX. Vincent radios for an update. Everyone is scrambling for new surveillance on Neil's crew. No luck yet. He sighs, relieved, and gets out of his car. He lets Neil get far ahead of him so they don't arrive together.

Neil moves quickly and with purpose, like he knows exactly where he's going. He crosses a glass walkway on the second floor above the airy modern lobby, room key obvious in his hand, just as Vincent arrives at the bank of elevators. 

Neil looks down at Vincent, flashes hand signals like a baseball catcher. First two fingers, two fingers again, then five. No stopping at the front desk where the security cameras get good surveillance. Only the shitty black and white security cameras in the halls. Neither of their professions are particularly liberal or open-minded.

The elevator dings quietly. Vincent takes it up one floor. He follows signs indicating rooms two 201 through 249, down a long carpeted hallway. It seems longer than it is. Vincent's steps feel weirdly heavy, though he moves lightly on his feet. 

He knocks once on the door to room two-twenty-five. Hears a muffled, matter-of-fact, “It's open.”

Vincent opens the door and slips into the room. He hopes the heat in his cheeks isn't visible. Hopes the flutter in his chest isn't, either. Neil already has his jacket off and shirt untucked. His gun is on the night stand. Neil doesn't look at Vincent as he unbuttons his shirt. Vincent puts his gun, badge, and extra clip beside Neil's. He toes off his shoes and throws his jacket over a chair. He feels the sound of Neil's belt unbuckling all along his skin. 

Furtive glances reveal their similarities and differences as Neil undresses: about the same age; decent shape; lean and firm, little fat, no paunch on Neil, slight paunch on Vincent (vending machine food, powdered coffee creamer, eating on the run). 

Vincent can't control the slight tremor of his hands as he begins to unbutton his shirt.

Neil suddenly appears in front of him, naked from the waist up. He looks down at Vincent's shaking hands, then back up to Vincent's eyes. He doesn't smile, quite. His features soften like they did in the coffee shop. He puts a hand on Vincent's belt. 

“Tough guy, huh?” he says, barely audible. There's a slight sardonic twist at one corner of his mouth. 

Vincent has nothing to say. Out of everyone he's ever taken down or tried to, only this guy made him. Made him not as a cop but as wanting what he wants.

Neil puts a hand firmly on the back of Vincent's neck. He draws their mouths together, but stops just before they meet. They barely breathe each others breath for a moment. Then Neil surges against him and Vincent is slammed back against the wall. 

His heart skips a beat for a second, afraid he's read this all wrong, afraid a hidden blade is aimed at his flank. Blades are silent death, avoiding the attention that the noise of guns attracts.

But, no. Neil's mouth is perfect: strong, tender, ardent, inquisitive. It's the mouth of a younger man, one with hopes and dreams and daring he shouldn't have at his age. 

It is all Vincent can do to keep up, let alone try to dish out what he's taking. Neil unbuckles Vincent's belt, finishes unbuttoning his shirt. Vincent's shirt comes off as Neil's stubble scrapes his jaw. He flashes back to beard-burning Justine's chin with hot kissing and passionate fucking early in their marriage. Flashes farther back to his father's rough cheek against his own as a child.

This is Vincent’s curse: to see, to feel, to remember; to store it all inside and reveal it to no one. 

Neil's mouth is fierce savior. His firm hands pause at unbuckling, unzipping and rise to the back of Vincent's head, holding Vincent still for deeper, wetter. Vincent's body responds. His fingers sink into Neil's close-shorn hair. His other hand grips firm upper arm muscle.

Neil's hands get back to work; they make short work of Vincent's belt and pants. His pants fall instantly to his ankles from the weight of the holster and cuffs. He tries to do the same for Neil, hands fumbling. Neil, still in his own pants, presses his cock against Vincent's. Vincent feels it through his briefs, hard and hot. Neil's body curves, tense, around Vincent, trapping him against the wall. Vincent still grips Neil's arm with one hand. The other slides down the back of Neil's neck, strokes down his back, settles on a buttock for leverage, to press his own hardness against Neil's.

He doesn't know what he's doing. But he does, kind of. It doesn't matter. 

The bed side table lamp is the only light, Neil's mouth on his – harsh breathing, rough kissing – the only sounds.

The insistence of the mouth on his, the warm hands quickly and coolly learning his body, make Vincent wonder for a second if it's all going to happen with him up against the wall. His hands push at Neil's open pants, hesitate at the waistband of his briefs, slide around to feel Neil's lean lower back.

As if he somehow sensed the question, Neil suddenly pulls back, takes his mouth away. He looks down at the carpet, hair mussed, half naked. They're both panting like hard-run horses catching their breath. Vincent's arms are somehow around Neil. He slides his hands to Neil's ribs to give him space, to let him move away if he wants. He feels Neil's ribs expand and contract with each husky breath. Neil props one hand on the wall over Vincent's shoulder, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Those eyes seek Vincent's again. Vincent feels pinned to the spot, exposed. Everything fades except Neil's intense gaze and the close blur of his skin and muscle. 

“Get on the bed,” Neil says softly. Request or command, Vincent can't tell. 

Neil moves away from him, drops his pants, steps out of them. He quickly strips off his boxers. His buttocks are lean, muscular. Their guns sit on the bedside table still, evidence of this fragile truce. 

Vincent steps out of his pants at his ankles and sinks down on the bed in his sleeveless T-shirt and briefs, keeping Neil in view. He lays back but props himself up on his elbows. Neil digs in his jacket pocket on the chair, then turns. His cock is stiff, hard, shiny at the tip, and the only thing Vincent can look at. Neil sits down on the bed next to Vincent, who slides back a bit. Fierce and frenzied is over. They slide together slowly, hands seeking the shape and feel of each other. Vincent wonders what Neil got from his pocket. Condom, he supposes. 

Then it really hits him – a condom. He's suddenly harder than maybe he's ever been – and totally freaked out. What little remains of Vincent's clothes – sleeveless T-shirt, briefs – are slowly peeled off and tossed away. Neil's lips press softly every few inches as he bares more of Vincent's skin. 

Vincent's hands slide over Neil's body, one in front, one in back. Tense, hard muscle. Vincent strokes a hand between Neil's thighs, stopping short of – he feels the incredible heat against his forearm – 

Suddenly Vincent is utterly weary, bone deep tired. 

(If he ever let himself feel it, it would slow him down, make him stupid, lose his edge.) 

He lies back completely on the bed. Neil leans over him. Their touching is languid. Vincent thinks briefly of how surveillance is desperately trying to pick up Neil and his crew. Neil's mouth moves to Vincent's chest, his nipples, then farther down. Vincent feels the brush of warm breath in the trail of hair below his navel.

When lips press to the crease between his thigh and pelvis, Vincent shivers. Before he has time to think, Neil sucks him in to the hilt, wet, hot, tight. Vincent hits the firm but yielding back of Neil's throat and, unable to control the impulse, thrusts helplessly. 

Neil's running the show. He does what he wants, for as long as he wants to, pressure or not from Vincent's hands in his hair, on the back of his head, on his neck. It's coming fast, too fast, Vincent knows. Neil's incredible mouth sucking him makes him want it. His fingers slip in Neil's fine, short hair. 

Neil brings him to the edge again and again until Vincent sucks his teeth with frustration. He wants – needs – to come. What's the deal? He has no idea. If he comes now, in Neil's mouth, is he obligated to reciprocate? He floats on a tide of pleasure, these worries fading as pleasure sears itself through his thrumming cock and body. 

Vincent finds he has been murmuring a steady litany of near-incoherence. “Yeah.” “God.” “Uh.” “More.” “Please...” 

That last he whispers as Neil dangles him from the edge again and again – and on and on – but won't let him fall. Neil's mouth, a perfect instrument of torture by pleasure, moves off his cock. Vincent lies there, nearly as spent as he would be if he had come. Yet he hasn't.

Neil breathes his own quiet litany against Vincent's skin. “Shh.” Against his hip. “Okay.” Against his stomach. “Relax.” Above his mouth. “Shh.” again – into his neck.

His hands trembling, Vincent reaches for Neil's cock. He grasps it firmly, and Neil shudders. It is Vincent's first clue that maybe this is as shocking – as intense – for Neil as it is for him. He's never done this – to anyone but himself – hasn't a clue how. He figures he'll just do everything Justine ever did to him that made his eyes roll back in his head with pleasure.

So he does. His mouth moves slowly over Neil's chest and stomach, while he slowly jacks Neil by hand. When his lips get down to the musky scent of Neil's cock, he feels fingers slide through his hair, urging him to take it, take it all. He does. It's a lot harder work than he ever thought from watching and experiencing it himself. 

(He's not much for porn. He knows too much about the industry, the people. LA is the porn production capital of North America. Maybe the world, though new Eastern bloc capitalism is catching up fast.) 

Vincent is surprised to feel his eyes tear. The fuck: is he crying? No. Gag reflex. There's no way he can come close to what Neil just did to him. Vincent gives it his best shot anyway. He thinks he can hit some of the highlights. From Neil's body language – stomach tightened, thighs rigid – he's doing okay. He never realized how big a cock actually is until he had one in his mouth. 

Neil breathes harshly, panting. His hands in Vincent's hair don't quite hold Vincent down on his cock.

Suddenly, rough hands on Vincent's upper arms pull him up and off Neil's cock. They're level in bed, face to face. Neil twists away a moment, to turn off the bedside lamp. 

They're plunged into darkness. Light blocking drapes let in a thin crack of light from outside. It takes a few minutes for Vincent's eyes to adjust. He feels Neil's warm hands slide over his chest, his arms, his hips. One slides down to grip his cock and he thrusts into it involuntarily.

“Ground rules,” Neil breathes into his shoulder.

“Rules?” Vincent mutters, mouth at Neil's ear. Neil moves warm against him.

“What we're doing.”

The insane possibility of this happening again – more than just this once – rises like a phoenix in Vincent's chest. 

Neil clarifies into Vincent's shoulder. “How we finish.”

Vincent comes crashing back to earth just as fast. Only this once; that's all they get. He sighs heavily, trying to shake off the sudden melancholy. 

“You maybe figured–” Vincent begins.

“You don't do this much,” Neil interrupts. It's utterly straightforward, not superior or smug. 

Vincent coughs. Ever, he thinks but does not say. There's a pause. 

“So?” Neil asks. 

He takes hold of Vincent's balls as he speaks. The rough yet gentle tugging and rolling of Vincent's balls is soothing, so soothing. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

“I do what you do,” Vincent sighs. 

There is a moment of silence on Neil's side that makes Vincent want to squirm. He refuses to let himself. 

But then Neil whispers, “Yeah?” 

It's whispered with such wonder and gratitude, it kills Vincent. “Yeah,” he replies. He means it.

He feels Neil relax heavily against him. “You don't like it, say so, it stops. We move on.”

A strong hand grips his jaw. Their mouths come together again, then Vincent lets Neil's mouth go where it wants. After meandering from his mouth to his neck to his chest to his stomach, it sucks him in again, tight and hot. 

Soon he's grabbing at Neil's head, thrusting madly. Can't get that close to the edge of coming again, and not come. This time, Neil rushes him right to the edge and over. Vincent comes hard, spurting again and again. Sees stars behind his eyelids, they're shut so tight. 

His groans are guttural. He has no idea what he's said or if it was even coherent as his body jerks and trembles and everything inside – the dead sixteen year old hooker; her mother; the bloated banquet murder victims – is sucked out of him. It's less ejaculation than exorcism, than being born again. Everything fades away except each wave of ecstasy as he spurts. Pleasure pumps all the good and bad inside him out into Neil's mouth. This is the only reason he has ever existed, cresting in a white hot nirvana that fades into blank, empty space.

A light smack to his cheek wakes him. “Hey.” 

He opens his eyes in the dimness. “What?” He feels a sheen of cooling sweat all over his chest and stomach.

“You blacked out.”

“I what?”

“Scared the crap outta me.”

“Shit,” Vincent says. “Sorry. Last time I checked, heart was fine.” A lie. He never goes to the doctor.

“Save the bullshit for your wife,” Neil says dryly. 

Vincent nods in the dark. He clears his throat. The shrug he gets in reply moves Neil's warmth against his skin. He feels he should get something off his chest right now, before this goes any farther. 

“Listen...” He hesitates. 

“We're not done,” Neil assures him. He takes Vincent's chin in his hand, kisses him hard, then slides his thumb over Vincent's wet bottom lip. He slides out of bed and stands. 

“Shower,” he says, and turns toward the bathroom.

Vincent blinks as Neil disappears in the bathroom, then hears the shower start.

By the time Vincent makes it there, Neil is soaped up and ready to rinse off. Vincent finds him like that when he pulls the shower curtain aside. Steam curls around them. Vincent steps in to the shower as Neil turns back into the spray and rinses off. Neil jerks his head towards the water streaming down. 

They squeeze past each other in the narrow bathtub, then Vincent is under the hot, stinging water. The water is hot and when he feels Neil's hands on him, Vincent turns his face into the spray. It feels good. Hands on his back soap him up, stroke over his shoulders, upper back, mid and lower back. They finally descend to soap up his buttocks. 

Neil's hands stroke hot, wet and soapy through the cleft of his buttocks, and Vincent relaxes. Vincent props his hands up on the tile as Neil strokes his soapy hand between his cheeks. Neil does it again, and again – and again: soapy, hot, slippery. It's incredibly sensual. When it stops, Vincent's hands slide down the tile to his sides again.

Neil's hands slide around Vincent's buttocks, find Vincent's hands, draw them back behind Vincent, like he's going to cuff him. But Neil puts his hard cock in Vincent's right hand. He reaches around and soaps Vincent's cock up, getting him hard again. He presses the soap into Vincent's other hand. 

Vincent turns in Neil's arms. He slides his soapy hands all over Neil's cock and balls. Neil backs up into the spray and raises his head. The water cascades down, rinsing the soap off him, and Vincent realizes something. 

“You never came.”

“No.”

“Goddamn. I worked fucking hard. And you never came.”

“Something else in mind,” Neil says, his mouth half-quirked in an enigmatic smile. He turns Vincent, still somewhat soapy. They trade places and Vincent is beneath the spray, Neil's hands and water sluicing soap off of him. He wets his hair fully, the hot water relaxing yet invigorating.

Neil's hands cup Vincent's buttocks. Vincent's arms come up under Neil's, like a boxer avoiding head shots, ready to take body blows. He drops the soap. Hot water streams over his head and hair and face. They kiss, not breathing. 

Neil kneads Vincent's buttocks, pressing his erection along side Vincent's. After a few good kneads, hands slipping over Vincent's cheeks, Neil spreads them apart and Vincent sighs into his mouth. 

They turn yet again – hands on his hips urge Vincent to move – and he is out of the spray, facing away, Neil behind him backing into it. 

Neil has one of those tiny hotel bottles of conditioner in his hand. He opens it with his teeth and spits the lid out into the tub. He pours some into his palm and tilts his hand to let it run down to his fingers. He slides them between Vincent's buttocks and – Christ – rubs the cool conditioner on Vincent's hole. Rubs all around it, slips a finger tip or two barely in, then out. Then he does it all over again. And again. And again. 

Vincent is so fucking turned on, he puts his hands up on the shower tile. His pelvis rocks and tilts rhythmically, pushing back against Neil's rubbing, probing fingertip. Neil's hand pulls back, but only for more conditioner. Then it's right back. This time it's much more than a fingertip, it's the whole finger. Neil slides it in as deep as possible.

Vincent can't believe how fucking amazing it is. The way Neil touches him is so wrong and so fucking right. Neil's teeth are in his shoulder. Vincent's nipple is caught between Neil's fingers. Now Neil slides two fingers inside him, stretching him. But their constant slow in and out movement accompanying the slight pain feels so incredible, Vincent tries not to writhe with the pleasure and shocking unfamiliarity of it. It is a piercing sweetness, and everything twitches when Neil strokes over that spot inside him. 

The shower sprays down on them and Neil slips his arm tight around Vincent. He penetrates Vincent that way, mouth and teeth on his neck, his shoulder. Lubed with conditioner, he moves two fingers in and out of Vincent, over and over, until Vincent's knees are shaking and he feels like he's going to come and yet he can't.

Finally Neil loosens his grip and slides his fingers out. Vincent feels the loss keenly but says nothing. His arousal tamped down, he turns in the spray to look at Neil. Their mouths come together, slow, easy, sensual. Then Neil pulls away and shuts off the shower. 

“Come on. Bed,” he murmurs. 

They step out and towel off quickly, not entirely. Still damp, steam around them in the bathroom, Neil grabs the small bottle of conditioner, and Vincent follows him back to the dark room. They lay down beside each other, Neil pausing to leave the little conditioner bottle on the night stand. They kiss again, lips moving together, half languid pleasure, half sharp anticipation.

Finally they part and Neil gently pushes Vincent's shoulder and nudges his hip. Vincent gets it; he rolls over slowly, anticipation and freak-out warring for the upper hand. Neil straddles the backs of his thighs and rubs the small of his back. “Relax.”

“Yeah, because that’s easy,” Vincent protests wearily into the mattress.

“Done this before.”

I've done a lot of shit before, too, Vincent thinks. Doesn't mean I did it well the second, or third, or fifth time. 

Neil speaks quietly, still rubbing the small of Vincent's back. “Not brutal. Don't want you returning the favor that way, either.”

The enormity of it stuns Vincent, what Neil's about to do to him. It is perhaps the most bizarrely sincere conversation Vincent's ever had, even with everything they're not saying. Neil leans down against him, his chest to Vincent's back. 

“Relax,” he murmurs again in Vincent's ear. 

He snugs his cock between Vincent's buttocks and lays his full weight on him. It is weirdly pleasurable in ways Vincent does not really want to think about. Neil puts his legs between Vincent's. Vincent spreads his legs in response to the gentle pressure. At first, Neil just strokes back and forth in the furrow between Vincent's buttocks. It doesn't hurt and Vincent slowly relaxes. The friction and warmth and weight on him get him hard again.

When Neil pulls back, Vincent feels the cool conditioner once again rubbed around his hole and then two cool fingers penetrating him again. He clenches against them, can't help it. Then the fingers are gone, and he hears Neil tear open a condom wrapper. He feels Neil move over him, slicking it on. Then thumbs vent his buttocks apart and more cool conditioner falls right on the spot where Neil's going to nail him. Vincent shivers.

“Easy,” Neil murmurs. A hand kneads the small of Vincent's back. “Tuck a pillow under you. Like you're gonna fuck it.”

Vincent obeys. A small part of his mind is shocked that he's taking such orders. The rest of him is only too glad to do exactly what he's told by someone who knows what he's doing. Vincent feels cool, wet pressure against his hole. He takes a deep breath and holds it.

“Don't hold your breath,” Neil whispers right then. “Breathe.”

Neil shifts above him, holds himself up on one hand. Vincent feels more cool lotion and then the tip of what must be a finger enters him. He squeezes up instantly. He can't help it, though there's no pain yet, just pleasure.

“Deep breath,” Neil urges quietly. 

Vincent takes a deep breath. He keeps taking deep breaths and long exhales. A thicker finger enters him. Neil's thumb, he guesses.

It's unbelievable, the thick, slow in and out. It's excruciatingly pleasurable. Surprisingly, there's still no pain. The thumb withdraws and Neil positions himself. Vincent feels the pressure against his hole and holds his breath accidentally. 

“Relax,” Neil orders in a whisper. “And breathe.”

Vincent grabs Neil's forearm where it props Neil up. Neil thrusts shallowly. This time it hurts as Vincent stretches to accommodate something much thicker than a thumb. His grip tightens on Neil's forearm. He exhales slowly. Deep breath in, and Neil withdraws simultaneously. The pain decreases and the movement feels fucking amazing. 

On Vincent's exhale, Neil thrusts again, a little farther. It hurts a little more, but with so much pleasure accompanying it that Vincent doesn't care. Neil moves shallowly in and out of him like that, in rhythm with Vincent's slow breathing, a little deeper each time. 

It is so. Fucking. Amazing. Even with the pain of stretching to accommodate more and more of Neil's cock, being penetrated this way is like nothing Vincent's ever felt before. He feels so …full of Neil, as he gets more of his cock inside. 

Vincent relaxes completely when Neil whispers, “Hard part's over.”

Then Neil withdraws and thrusts again into him – to the hilt. Suddenly accommodating Neil's full girth all at once starts tears in Vincent's eyes. He lurches forward on the bed involuntarily, gripping Neil's forearm viciously.

“Get used to it,” Neil's whispers. “I won't move.”

He stays where he is, deep in, and he's right: after a couple of minutes and a lot of breathing, the stretch and pain is mostly gone. Still, it is the center of Neil's existence: this man deep inside him, filling him utterly. Pleasure, vulnerability, tenderness, the edge of pain. Then Neil withdraws almost entirely. There is a shock of pleasure at the motion and the reduction of Neil's girth.

“Again,” Neil whispers, warning Vincent. 

He thrusts slowly in again, and Vincent feels every fraction of an inch as it invades. He exhales slowly as Neil pushes farther in, feeling Neil fill and stretch him again.

“Christ,” Vincent gasps.

“You're okay,” Neil whispers, “you're okay.” It's a weirdly soothing mantra.

Neil pulls out slowly again, almost but not quite all the way. It's wonderful and terrible. Vincent can't take it, yet he wants more, wants it again and again. Neil thrusts in again, slow, on Vincent's exhale. He reads Vincent body's to hurt him less, to pleasure him more. 

Broken in just right now, Vincent's senses paradoxically narrow to the intensely erotic sensations of Neil moving inside him. Yet his senses notice details: Neil's forearms tremble alongside Vincent's upper arms. Drops of sweat fall from Neil onto Vincent's back like bright little punctuations of the deep pleasure. The effort required to be so controlled and sensitive makes Vincent re-think his assumptions about Neil. 

If he had it to do all over, knowing what he knows now, he thinks he would willingly take the pain from Neil – much more pain – knowing the pleasure it leads to. Yet Neil is a patient and watchful master thief; it isn't a total surprise to discover this hidden tenderness. 

They settle into a slow, steady rhythm. Vincent drifts, intoxicated by the slow, lazy spiraling up of pleasure from deep within. It's new, foreign. Incredible. Inevitable. Neil moves a little faster and Vincent's breath hitches. He accidentally tenses up, clenching around Neil's cock as it moves in and out of him. The pleasure is excruciating and Vincent shudders. 

He hears Neil suck a breath in sharply. It might be excruciating for Neil, too. Neil's thrusts and pullback become coarser, rougher. Vincent floats along the rising tide inside him. He used to do drugs, a long time ago working Vice. No high on anything – no matter how pure – matches this. Neil's cock strokes in and out of him faster and faster. Vincent feels the pressure and pleasure build. His fists clench around the bedspread. 

Neil's hands move from the bed beside Vincent's shoulders to his shoulder blades. He is pressed hard into the mattress, which gives and bounces gently with them as Neil's full weight presses on his upper back. It's leverage for Neil, to hold Vincent down and fuck him faster and harder. Their breathing accelerates as if they are sprinting, Vincent's face half mashed into the bedspread. Neil's breath comes harsher, his movements becoming wilder. It's more about his own pleasure, now. Vincent tastes bedspread in his mouth and pictures Neil over him, movement instinctual, like a rutting animal. 

Neil's motion becomes frenetic, breath hoarse and shallow, a runner at the end of a sprint to which he's given all. He flashes in and out of Vincent faster, more frenzied. His sweat falls onto Vincent's back, more of it and more frequently. The thrumming of their bodies swells as the rush of pleasure expands to a dizzying height. It's like a bomb goes off inside Vincent: it hits him deep at the root of his cock, in his tingling balls, in his helplessly clenching ass. Sensation and pleasure and the shadow of pain tangle together, unstoppable. The avalanche of sensation deep within overtakes Vincent, obliterating everything in its path. 

He comes, spurting hard into the pillow under him, his ejaculation seemingly pulled from deep within. His groans into the mattress are guttural. He can't tell if he was hard or limp before he came, doesn't care, Christ, it doesn't matter. 

He feels a last ferocious thrust by Neil, hard, sharp, deep. Then Neil stops breathing and he comes, too: spurts powerfully inside Vincent. His hands on Vincent's shoulder blades tremble; his arms shake, propping him up over Vincent. With the diminishing power of each successive spurt, Neil's motion slows and stops. He collapses down onto Vincent, unable to hold himself up anymore, his final spurts weak flutters. 

It is wet with sweat between their bodies, almost as wet as in the shower. Their muscles quiver against each other, finally able to rest, but bound in the memory of motion. Vincent feels Neil's cock shrink inside him until it slips out. Neil rolls off him and lays beside him. Their skin still touches wetly, but the cool air of the hotel room chills the wetness on Vincent's back. Vincent draws the pillow he just came all over out from under his cock and hips. The friction against the oversensitive head of his cock makes his breath catch. He drops it on the floor beside the bed. 

Chilled where he is wet with sweat, Vincent half sits up to push the covers of the bed out from under them and pull them up over he and Neil. Neil moves with him to do the same. Vincent is exhausted, spent, bliss close at hand, faintly amused that they're only getting under the covers now. He and Neil lie close together under the sheet and blanket, touching, not speaking. 

* * *

When he wakes, Neil McAuley is gone. Vincent’s gun, badge, and extra clip are still on the side table. A single bullet stands upright at the corner of the side table. Vincent sits up. He grabs his extra clip and the lone bullet. His clip is missing one bullet, but the lone bullet isn’t from his clip. 

It’s from Neil’s. A token taken and one left behind. He rolls Neil’s bullet between his thumb and forefinger. Neil said something about him returning the favor, but Vincent never got the chance. 

Maybe he will. Soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed because I don't know anyone in this fandom (it's a very small fandom). If you're interested in beta-ing, leave a comment. I would be very grateful.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ground Rules (fanart)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712159) by [P42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/P42/pseuds/P42)




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